Libero
by antiassasinguy
Summary: Pre-X. Boston, Massachusetts, 21XX: A member of a pinned-down Reploid Counter Unit laments of the illusion liberty brings as his counter-attack begins. Originally written for IRON-FIC. ONE-SHOT.


Disclaimer: I do not own Megaman X.

Summary: Pre-X. Boston, Massachusetts, 21XX: A member of a pinned-down Reploid Counter Unit laments of the illusion liberty brings as his counter-attack begins. 

**LIBERO**

**Written by BYAKURYUU/ANTIASSASINGUY**

Liberty had many sides to it; the good, the bad, the ugly; once upon a time that word was used in the name of truth; in the name of justice and all that stood for it. Liberty, as old mankind had once preached its young to death, was to be the means to an end; the great freedom for civilization to make its choice; his will free to make a choice; liberty was the wind that ideas would soar upon. Its very idea shook the souls of the evil; of the unjust and tyrannical; of dictators and madmen in power; liberty was to be crushed, to be smoked out, to be broken down and turned to dust at every opportunity and every glance. Liberty, to the poor, to the tired and weary, was a dream; it was hope.

However, like all things, it always had a downside. Everything always did.

My optics saw static as another EMP hit the ground. The circuits in my head unit had taken only a fraction of the blast. The enemy'd had hit an old command post on the far side of the city; one that we'd been in charge of the week before. Outside, my sensors could sense another Point Scout team had engaged the sentries; my systems couldn't make out who was winning, but as long as the sound of barrels being loaded were picked up, I'd let a brief nanosecond of relief come over me. The opposing force had given us a mixed barrel of results the last few days; holding a point at this moment in time wasn't unwelcome. They'd given us the eastern side of the city, but we'd lost a whole battalion in the process; I'd be satisfied as long as we can hold out for at least forty-eight hours. That'd give the Repair Unit some time to do what they did best and get the scrapped war-bots some bolts and nuts up so we can start pushing back. The last thing anyone wanted right now was to inspire some confidence in the malcontents; a losing streak wasn't on our agenda, and we didn't want to give them the impression we were on the defensive.

I didn't know if the humans had made us Reploids to be stubborn on purpose when it came to times like these.

The sound of the sentries stopped and I looked at the old ruins that became our new home. Repair bots were working overtime with the latest attack; the EMP had made them prioritize with fixing themselves up first, and seeing as only one Reploid from the Repair Unit was active, I could only offer my sympathies; he had his work cut out for him. Around us, everyone else was recovering; a good bulk of us had managed to get EMP shields up, but being this close, there was still some telling damage among us.

I can't complain at having a little bit of static at the top corner of my interface and jammed ID-Cs.

'I need three units to push up on the north-west sector; I want an expansion and I want it aggressive.' The sound of a gung-ho platoon leader rounded on a groggy set of assault specialists; the EMP hadn't hit us all the same, some hadn't had their shielding properly buffered for the last pulse bomb, 'we can't let them reach the drop points or we'll have a whole 'nother set of black boxes on our hands.'

I didn't say anything; whoever had engineered the platoon leader'd probably been an enthusiast of Old Mankind's grizzled war veterans. Bulky and almost titanic, he was about the size of half a tank himself, armed to the teeth with conventional projectile weaponry, most of which had emptied. He was a Sub-Command Warfare Reploid, much like old Ostrich, but he wasn't one of ours. The emblem, now faded and damaged with melted holes from beam weapons and scratches from bullet scrapes was one of a Red Jaguar; a Support Squadron stationed here before this whole drama unfolded. There'd been three Squadrons here preliminarily, but seeing as he and about seven others were Red Jaguars, that'd probably indicate that the other two were either at one of the two remaining command posts or had been permanently deactivated by the enemy. Seeing as a whole side of the city belonged to the other team I'd have gambled on deactivation, myself.

'Warthog, I'm not letting you or my men take a risk on this.' My Command Unit had arrived, and I noted with a little bit of apprehension that his arm cannon had been severed; he'd been part of support fire when we'd moved back hours ago. 'We have a sentry border established and I want all units to fortify this place until Owl comes with the air support. No use at us losing anymore bots that we already have.'

'We can't let them keep pushing; they got your command post with that EMP and I'm not sitting around waiting for them to drop another one on us while their forces keep getting windows.' The big mech, Warthog, rounded on the smaller, but still out-ranking Command Unit of mine. 'Let me lead a strike team to take that stadium and we can at least get some geography on our side.'

Before he could retort, however, the building to the left of the ruins that were ours knocked itself down. Explosions that would have deafened a typical human were heard as dust kicked up and settled just several yards from our current position. Assault Units sounded general quarters and took positions, running past a ruined hallway to the open, some of them mowed down as they did so. Heavier weaponry made itself known as missiles and smart bombs suddenly caked the upper side of our hovel.  
They'd been rearmed.

'Sir.' I sounded, my voice addled by static; it seemed my head circuits weren't the only things affected by that last EMP. We'd all miscalculated; underestimated.

Commander Sigma gave the order.

'Take 'em down.' 

It was easier done than said.

In war, when you made a move, you always left yourself open. Economic experts called it the cost of opportunity; I called it the state of things. The stadium was armed with a dozen soldiers, but they'd all just been designated sentries, and taking their general arm supplies from the back after a sneak-around wasn't hard at all. They yelled and cried and let out their cannons and their frustrations; bullets and lasers and explosions, but they weren't up against any old automatons. Warthog was a Sub-Command Point-Assault Specialist... and I was me.

It was what Old Mankind called a turkey shoot, and as well-armed and geared these guys were, we were designed, built and programmed to take on ten of them at a time, and twelve wasn't a knock when you were out in the open. Maybe if it weren't for the fact it was ol' Warthog and tiny me, they'd have repelled, held on, but the facts were there; they drew our card. They had to play the game; we all did.

I didn't enjoy it.

'Commander Storm Owl's got the skies; the air units have been taken care of and we should have a full push on our hands by the end of the week. Supplies and Repair Units are inbound in thirty-six hours.'

The voice of the Comm Officer, Peacock, came to life on the old battered receiver unit on my shoulder.

The stadium had been taken in the span of forty-three minutes and twenty-eight-point-oh-one-nine seconds from the moment the Command Unit gave the order. Warthog's pin-point of a close supply mark for the other side gave us a good base to build on; a good start to a counterattack. The brass would be happy, and the commander was relieved; Warthog'd done the fallen Red Jaguars proud; the last bot in command of theirs to get the job done.

I clicked the button on the side. I didn't want to hear what we'd done first-hand.

'The President of the United States Jeremiah Hawke issued a thanks to the War Sciences Committee of the United Defence Council for its quick response in addressing the uprising in the city of Boston. President Hawke has issued s – !'

I don't need to listen anymore. My sensors blocked out anything the reporter from the broadcast said, and a few minutes later I killed the feed myself. I didn't need to listen to humanity patting itself on its back for screwing up the lives of the men and women that make up its body; I didn't need a reporter's voice of gratitude for the raising of my V-Buster between the eyes of a man who fought hard and long for what he believed in.

For what all the living dead that littered the stadium believed was worth dying for.

On a half-obliterated wall of what was once was called the Green Monster I saw a word of slapped-on paint. 

_LIBERO_

It was almost poignant; _pointless_. A broken ideal held by the frailest of threads.

It was something none were worthy of.

'I never did get your name, soldier.'

Warthog had returned, scouting troop in tow. The base was welcoming its new guests, and by the end of the week, it'd all be but a blink in time.

Liberty was no more than a word.

'Vile.'

Justice no more than an illusion.

'Just like this whole fucking mess.' 

**END**


End file.
